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“You look like shit.”
Matt grunted back, really not in the mood, “Cope. You always smell like shit and you never hear me complaining,” and regretted it immediately as Frank protested loudly and immediately, the gruff voice ringing loudly in Matt’s sensitive ears.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole, I shower like twice a day.”
Now, Matt had actually been talking about the irritating stench of gunpowder that clung to the other man like second skin, but if the assumed insult was pissing him off that much, judging by the sudden uptick of his heartbeat and the quick, annoyed intake of breath, Matt simply had to rile him up more. It's practically his god-given duty by now. It would be almost sacrilegous not to.
The vigilante probed, refusing to acknowledge that something inside his chest loosened as the familiar presence sat down across him with an annoyed huff, “Sure doesn't feel like it. You're not just washing your face and calling it a day, are you Frank? The nuns used to call that a Monday morning tantrum.”
Matt bit back a smirk as Frank slammed his hands on the table and snarled, “I ain't gotta listen to this shit. Listen, asshole, just be grateful I try to even visit your dumbass in this shithole after the stupid stunt you pulled in court.”
Matt said lightly, “It worked out, didn't it? You will notice that Fisk isn't mayor anymore.”
Frank sneered, “This what you call ‘working out', Red? That evil piece of shit gets to go free and you sit in this playpen like a good boy waiting for them to let you out on good behaviour? That your so-called justice? Huh?”
Matt gritted his teeth, head already pounding with the familiar Frank Castle-induced headache as the small part of him that was quietly happy at the other’s presence slowly and immediately faded away. His blood was already boiling, and this wasn't even the first time they've had a conversation about Matt’s ‘stunt’. Handcuffed to the table and unable to punch Frank in the face to get the rage out, he had resorted to simply slamming his head in the table à la Dex until the guards barged in and dragged a raging, screaming Frank away. That was two months ago, and Matt refused to let his first piece of intelligent conversation in weeks (although jury was still out on the ‘intelligent’ part) devolve into another screaming match.
So taking a deep breath, he plastered a smile and said, “I never knew you cared so much sweetheart. Is my stint in prison taking a toll on you? Feeling lonely?”
The distraction worked, as Frank snorted in disbelief and replied mockingly, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm missing you, honeybunch. I'm knitting sweaters waiting for you to come home. Fucking dumbass. Who gave you that, by the way? I want to send the bastard flowers.”
Matt rolled his eyes and winced immediately, the bruise around his eye aching something fierce, the bruise which Frank currently had a finger pointed at.
He said shortly, his need to keep the peace for the moment warring with his evergrowing need to tell Frank to shut the fuck up and mind your own fucking business, “Some guy. I'm handling it.”
Frank snorted, “Yeah, I can see that. Great job, by the way, blowing your identity on live television and then letting yourself get thrown in gen pop with the other assholes you put away. It's a bloody miracle you haven’t died of a ‘mysterious, sudden decline in health’ yet.”
Matt huffed, “I'm not that incompetent.”
Frank’s fingers drummed against the cold metal table as he sneered, voice growing quieter, “Well, you are acting like it. You let them take you away, Murdock. Why?”
Matt fought back a stupid, inappropriate grin at the insinuation. Frank knew he could've gotten out, if he really wanted to. Never would've ended up here in the first place. Something in his heart warmed a little, because fuck. Frank really did know him, huh?
Matt replied softly, eyes falling close unconsciously, “Felt right. I don't know.”
Frank repeated, voice incredulous, “Felt right? What the fuck are you talking about now?”
“I have….things I need to repent for.”
The faces swam up to his mind again, those masked civilians in homemade Daredevil masks, bodies covered in blood, dead. Dead. Dead because he and Fisk just couldn't leave well enough alone. Dead because of their mutual obsession, their vicious hatred like a hurricane that swept away so many innocent lives in its wake, and Matt was left reeling in the aftermath, alive, shaking, wondering how he could ever live with this. What Frank doesn't know is prison feels like sunshine and daisies most days, compared to the hell that is the torture of his own damned mind.
But Frank didn't know this, so he replied, voice laced with venom, “Yeah, I fucking knew it's some stupid Catholic guilt shit. Whatever, rot in this hellhole. See if I care.”
And he made to stand up, but was stopped by Matt’s uncharacteristically soft voice, “You do care. You do. You visit a lot. Probably more than Karen, even, and I know it’s harder for you to get in. And it helps. It really does. Makes me feel like….me, I guess. Sometimes. Thank you for that, Frank. It really…means a lot.”
Matt’s voice shook slightly at the end, and Frank slowly sat back down.
Equally slowly, the man huffed, head tilted away slightly from Matt, “Yeah, whatever, cut the sappy shit. I'm just saying, if you want out of here, just say the word. Dumbass.”
Matt said genuinely, “Thank you.”
They lapsed into a small silence, in which Matt tried to discreetly wipe his eyes and Frank shifted awkwardly, head twisting to look anywhere but at Matt.
Finally, he grunted, “You decent?”
Matt laughed, an actual genuine laugh, and replied, “Yeah, Frank. Decent.”
Frank tilted his head back to look at Matt again, and said shortly, “I don't know what your deal is, but I guess. I guess I understand that shit a little. All that repenting for stuff you did or whatever. I…did something recently I'm not proud of.”
Matt sat up a little at that, wary. He had heard Frank boast loudly and proudly about all the ‘shitbags’ he put into the grave with zero remorse in his voice, and it angered Matt just as much as it frightened him (sometimes, on his darkest days, when the worst of humanity snapped away all his hope, it was like Frank was a mirror into the future and he hated himself for thinking that - was he really just one bad day away?).
So for Frank to feel something even close to regret, something truly awful, even unthinkable must've happened, and Matt waited in dread, his loud mind silenced for once, focused entirely on the other man.
Frank said, voice haunted, “I shot a kid.”
A pause. Then:
“What?” Matt said blankly, baffled.
Frank’s leg started bouncing up and down in agitation, rattling the table, “You…you heard me, Red.”
Matt blinked and stated, “Okay. Why?”
Frank snarled, “I just told you that I shot a kid and you….you-”
Matt interrupted tiredly, “Yeah, I can see where this is going. Frank, I really don't have the patience for this right now. My bed smells like piss and my new roommate has tried to murder me four different times with four different types of cutlery and the night guard shift has been avoiding my block and I haven't gone to sleep in two days. I'm not going to preach at you right now, or whatever atonement you are looking for. I'm already dealing with that shit in my own head, I don't need yours. Just tell me or don't, but I'm not your very own personal Punisher for whenever you feel actual human emotions like guilt and regret.”
Frank hit back through gritted teeth, “No, because then you would actually be useful, for once.”
Matt smiled winningly and said, “Spit it out, asshole.”
Frank spit it out, punctuated by Matt’s charming, delightful commentary.
Of course, it took him a good while to spit it out, because Matt already had a problem with how Frank began the story.
“I guess it all started when I ran Spider-Man over with my car-”
Something is very wrong with this guy, Matt commented internally, ignoring the Foggy-like voice that pointed out yeah dumbass he shot you in the head once and you didn't figure it out then?
“And ‘course, that little punk was all up in my ass about killing and stuff and he keeps bringing up that Staten Island thing and it irritates the shit out of me-”
Matt decided he had let Frank go on uninterrupted long enough that the other wouldn't immediately snarl back that Red you can't even let me talk in peace for one goddamn second without spouting absolute nonsense can you, and asked, curiosity burning inside him, “What Staten Island thing?”
Frank waved his hand, irritated, “Don't want to talk about it, I swear I will put a gun in my mouth again if you make me. But I guess that was the beginning, wasn't it, that day is when it all went fucking downhill. You're minding your own business one day and then some uppity little spider saves your life once and now I'm fighting the motherfucking Hulk of all people….”
The man trailed away, grumbling. Matt…..processed that. He tabled the ‘put a gun in my mouth again’ discussion for when he was feeling slightly more mentally stable and Frank was feeling slightly less murderous and both of them were collectively feeling slightly more emotionally mature (so never, the Foggy-like voice commented in his head cheerfully, which Matt once again ignored). He also tabled the frission of cold fear that ran through his spine at the image that sentence had offered and shoved it deep down in a very healthy manner. Then he planted his focus on the absolutely bizarre set of events Frank had alluded to, and blurted out the first thought that came to his mind:
“What do you mean you fought the Hulk? No way. Bruce is the nicest guy I know, he would literally never hurt anybody.”
There was a small silence.
Frank said slowly, “Matt.”
Matt raised his eyebrows at that, lips twitching.
“Yeah, Frank?”
“How the fuck do you know the motherfucking Hulk?”
Matt bit back a very inopportune grin and replied evenly, “I had a very nice lunch with him and his family once. Delightful people.”
“Right. I'm leaving if you're not gonna take this seriously.”
Matt protested, “Hey, what the fuck. I believed you when you said you met Spider-Man.”
Frank said sarcastically, “Yeah, Red, it's very hard to believe I sometimes stumble upon New York’s golden boy when I gun down assholes in New York. Seriously, the way the kid prances around 24/7 shooting off with his smart mouth, I doubt there are many people in the city that haven't met him.”
Frank's voice softened slightly at the end, fond, almost. Matt assumed a diplomatic silence, trying to arrange his face into something more neutral. Frank saw right through it, damn him.
He took one look at Matt’s face and snorted.
“There's no way. There's no fucking way.”
“Frank -”
Frank repeated, incredulous and apparently sufficiently distracted from his story-that-somehow-involves-the-Hulk-and-ends-with-him-shooting-a-kid, “There is no. fucking. way that you haven't met Spider-Man yet. There's no way I know spider-kid before you. How the fuck have the two most annoying motherfuckers in my life who spout off bullshit about the sanctity of human life and jump off buildings in blinding red costumes not met each other? Actually now that I think about it, this is good. This is really good. Stay this way. Don't interact with him. He's a nice kid, I don't want you infecting him with your asshole-ness and other bullshit bullshit-ery.”
Bullshit bullshit-ery. Matt bid goodbye to faint wisps of his hopes for a mildly intelligent conversation.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Frank. Of course I have met Spider-Man. Well, in a way.”
Frank shook his head, and declared in an irritatingly smug voice, “Nah, you're lying. I can sense it.”
Matt snapped, “Oh, so you've got abilities now.”
Frank laughed at him. Actually, genuinely. Just for that, Matt was tempted to bring up the hey remember when you fucking shot a kid but he wasn't that petty yet. (Also it's a nice laugh and you don't hear it often, another voice whispered in his head slyly, which he promptly told to shut the fuck up).
“God, Red, this is really pissing you off, huh? I think you actually really like what the kid does for the city, admire him even. I bet you tried to look for him, waited for him to approach you but he didn't. Oh, this is precious. Did he hurt your feelings when he didn't come to play?”
Matt resisted the childish urge to stick his tongue out and replied stiffly, “We have been in contact before, Frank, back when Fisk was mayor.”
And it was true: Spider-Man regularly tussled with the AVTF and sent would-be victims his and Karen’s way with a small signed note with a request like he needs a safe way out of the city for him and his daughter, I know you help people like this or a helpful hint like AVTF lurking undercover in the street near your base today, be careful. Neither of them had any idea how Spider-Man knew any of this or how he had found their base, but they knew enough about his relentless efforts for the city that they didn't investigate it further. Matt had personally chalked it up to the vigilante’s connection to the Avengers and moved on, trying to ignore the slightly childish hurt in his chest as he heard the other vigilante swing away without talking. (Jesus, Frank is right, maybe I really am upset he didn't come to “play”. Why don't I just drink my milk and go to bed at nine with all the maturity of a self-respecting five year old?)
But Spider-Man had missed the worst of it, the last horrific days of Fisk’s reign. The last message they ever received from him was in the hands of a recently saved frightened shop-owner and all it said was running point on recent Hand development, can you guys hold the fort down for a few days? Thanks!
Well, they started a revolution and overthrew the clearly deranged mayor in the meantime, and while Matt didn't know the man personally, it did seem like something Spider-Man would do as well (which is why Matt may be slightly…. grumpy about the whole notes and not-talking business).
(Also Matt and Karen had been running on fumes by this point, so they barely acknowledged the last note before throwing it away. It was actually in the blissful period between the end of Fisk’s reign and Matt’s eventual arrest, when he had been trying to live a few guilt-free days before succumbing to his regrets completely, that the news of the Hand’s arrest at Spider-Man’s hand came in and they finally processed what the fuck Spider-Man had actually been talking about. The Hand. You know, the Hand. The fucking Hand. Matt's Hand. Well, definitely not Matt’s but. Well. In Matt’s defense Spider-Man and the motherfucking Hand are so far removed from each other in his mind that he didn't even put it together even after he heard the note. Like he heard it, but he didn't understand it. And it made sense too: of course the Hand would start making moves after so long when Fisk is in-charge. He should've been the one who thought of that, kept an eye out on old bases. And Matt went to prison the next day extra grumpy inside because. Well. Just typical. Spider-Man defeated the threat of the motherfucking Hand and sent them Damage Control’s way without ever needing Daredevil’s input on the annoying ninjas or even talking to him once. Which is fine. Really. And when Karen told him he should stop pouting about it she was clearly misreading something because he was fine. He was absolutely fine. Just fine.)
Frank hadn't stopped gloating in the meantime.
“-sounds like he doesn't want to talk to you, Red. I mean, I can't blame the guy, he must've heard rumours of how you're an asshole and decided not to engage. Maybe that's why you don't get any visitors, everybody knows that Daredevil’s an asshole who lords his moral superiority over us lesser beings. He's not a person, he's just one giant, entitled, walking, wrinkled assho-”
Matt interrupted testily, “You were saying something about shooting a kid?”
Frank seemed to almost wilt, curling into himself soundlessly. Okay, so maybe Frank was right about the asshole thing.
Guilt stabbed in his heart and he gracelessly tried to walk it back, “I mean- I'm….I shouldn't have said it like that….”
Then Matt paused, frowning.
“Wait, what the hell is going on. I know I said I won't preach at you right now, but you shot a kid and I'm apologizing for bringing it up like it's a sensitive subject for the shooter. I don't even know if the kid is alive, or what the context behind the whole shitshow is, and I refuse to feel like an asshole until I do.”
Frank said gruffly, “Yeah…yeah I'll tell you.”
“Telepath. What, like mind-reading stuff?”
“No, Red, like taking over bodies and shit. Creepy stuff.”
“Well, on the bright side, at least Jess left the city before that happened. She would've done worse than shoot the kid.”
“I didn't shoot Jean Grey.”
“What, you shot some kid other than the arguably slightly justified kid to shoot in this scenario? Although-just-to-injure-so-she-doesn’t-hurt-anyone-else-not-kill-I-just-wanted-to-make-sure-you-got-that-part,” he added the last sentence in a rush.
Frank didn't deign to reply to the last part, instead grunting, “I didn't shoot Jean. Stop trying to guess the story.”
“You are no fun.”
“....Why would Spider-Man leave his girlfriend with you?”
“Not his girlfriend, I don't think so, but yeah. They were looking at each other weird so I think it's not really just buddy-buddy….”
“Looking at each other weird? The fuck does that mean?”
“I don't fucking know. Weird. The kid wouldn't take off his mask and he was spouting some nonsense about having no people and being like me. Set him straight, of course. Told him I wouldn't be hiding like a coward if the people I loved were still alive.”
(He didn't know about that last part. Matt had a smart comment about Frank and Karen locked and loaded, but knew that would derail the conversation immediately and one of them would end up punching the other in the face and they wouldn't talk for months so he remained silent. Plus, he didn't really want to acknowledge the weird tension between his girlfriend and his sort-of-friend-sort-of-bane-of-existence unless he really, really had to.)
“Jesus. Poor Bruce. Could you send him flowers and a get well soon card on my behalf?”
“I will literally fucking put a gun in my mouth again before shopping for a get well soon card for the motherfucking Hulk.”
“Stop being rude about Bruce, he's a really sweet guy and he tried his best. Telepaths can be difficult. Also please don't mention the gun thing a third time or I'll be forced to have an emotionally mature talk about suicidal tendencies with you and we both know there is nobody less suited for that than me.”
“...Noted.”
“....”
“....”
“....Maybe you can talk to Karen-”
“I won't bring it up again, so stop talking about it.”
“....”
“Fucking hell, stop thinking about it, Red.”
“...So you're a telepath now?”
“If I had a gun right now, Murdock-”
“.....”
“.....”
“....So you did shoot Jean Grey.”
Frank looked away and said bitterly, “No, spider-kid stepped in, I just told you this. I shot the spider-kid. I shot him.”
Matt hmmed and said quietly, “Right. But you meant to shoot her.”
Frank shifted uncomfortably, “Why are you so goddamn focused on that? She was holding half of New York hostage, I had to do something.”
Matt nodded slowly, sadness welling up inside of him. There was nothing flawed in Frank’s logic really, nothing worse than his usual method of dealing with problems by gunning them down. And he was right: New York city had been under a dangerous threat, and something had to be done.
It's just….the image of Frank shooting down a teenaged kid, no matter a reckless, deranged telepath holding the city frozen hostage, didn't sit right with him. It would’ve spared countless people from the absolute torture of mind control, but Matt is equally sure it would've broken something fragile in Frank if he went through with it. Selfishly, he is sort of glad Frank didn't kill her, because he wouldn't know how to deal with a Frank that had something like that hanging over his head. He really wouldn't know how to save Frank from himself, once he pulled out of his mindless rage to realize what he had done.
Spider-Man’s death would've been even worse, Matt knew, judging from the fond tone Frank spoke of the boy in, but it was good that the kid stepped in when he did. His abilities protected him (enhanced healing, he has heard whispered rumours around the city) and saved Jean as well. From Frank's grudging retelling, it seems the girl played a pivotal part in keeping Spider-Man stable, which made his heart light up with giddy hope because sacrifice and forgiveness and compassion and redemption. It was probably the best case scenario of an awful situation that Matt would replay over and over in his head, wondering if he could've done different, but Spider-Man made it reality.
I really love this kid, he mused in his head, and grumpily wondered when he would get a chance to actually express his admiration vocally to the guy’s face.
Frank cleared his throat pointedly. Right. Frank.
“Right. So you took him to the hospital…"
Frank stared down at the cold metal table as he whispered, voice suspiciously hoarse, “...And he forgave me. Just like that. All that shit I put him through, I nearly killed him, Red. I could've, if not for Jean….and he didn't even think about it. He just….he's….he’s a really nice kid. Never had a friend like that.”
Matt, who had been listening sympathetically and slightly in awe that Frank was having a genuine human conversation about feelings with him of all people, stiffened at the last part and shot the nastiest glare possible to the other man, who didn't even notice.
Frank sighed, “It was….nice. I mean, not the shooting the kid part, obviously. But. Shit, Red, what I'm trying to say is - at least something good came out of this fucking mess. Something really good.”
Matt said coolly, “Right. You can get out then.”
Frank looked up, startled, “The hell, Red? I was saying something here. Deep shit. Thought you would be into that.”
Matt gave him a frigid smile and said, “Aw, bud, maybe you should tell your new best friend Spider-Man about all this. Never had a friend that nice, after all.”
Frank huffed, and asked, voice deeply amused, “What, are you jealous, Red?”
Since Matt was a mature adult, he decided to take the mature, adult route of slamming his head repeatedly into the cold metal table instead of talking about his conflicted, definitely-not-jealous-just-slightly-offended feelings on the matter.
As the guards ushered out a snickering Punisher, Matt decided then and there he will never, ever talk to that ungrateful man and his brand new friend Spider-Man, ever again.
Frank barely settled into his second favourite hospital chair with an offhanded mention of his prison visit from a few hours ago when Peter looked up at him with actual fucking stars in his eyes, brighter than the actual fucking stars outside right now. It was unnerving.
The kid said, breathless, “You….you went to see Daredevil? Daredevil.The actual Daredevil. Holy shit, I love that guy.”
Frank frowned, “You guys know each other?” Frank hadn't gotten that impression from his grouchy, idiot friend in the prison. The literal opposite, in fact. He suppressed a smirk at the memory.
Peter shifted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly because he really just walked out of a fucking fairytale didn't he, “We-ell, no. He probably doesn't want some random kid encroaching in his territory.”
Frank grumbled, “You keep encroaching in my fucking territory.”
Peter scoffed, “Yeah, but that's you. He's Daredevil.”
Frank had no idea why Peter kept emphasising that, just sounds like he's saying Matt’s stupid fucking vigilante name over and over again and it's giving Frank a headache.
The kid continued, his ears now slightly red, what the fuck, “I…I left him and his team notes, sometimes. I dunno, it was probably lame as hell. He's just really cool, and I don't want to look like an idiot in front of him. You're his friend, reckon he'll like me?”
Frank, who had seen the aforementioned Daredevil pouting mere hours before because Spider-Man wasn't talking to him, had other pressing concerns. Having personally witnessed this kid take a fucking bullet for his worst enemy and also having endured several of his no-killing lectures, he felt a growing, dreadful certainty that Matt and Peter would get along too well, like a house on fire, and equally as destructive to Frank’s well-being. He chose to remain silent for the moment, because ain't no way in hell he's encouraging what will surely be a slow degradation of his sanity by two smug assholes prancing around New York like idiots. No way.
Peter deflated slightly at his silence, and Frank refused to feel guilty about that, because any leeway on his part will lead to a nauseatingly sweet vigilante team-up filled with compassion and love and forgiveness and the beauty of humanity and other disgusting things. No, it was better this way.
Frank declared sternly, “No talking right now, dumbass. Later.” Much, much later. “Go to sleep.”
Peter looked closely at him now, and smiled.
“What?” Frank said defensively, wondering if Jean could transfer mind-reading abilities.
The kid said softly, eyes falling close, “Nothing. Just…you look happier now. The Devil’s a great guy, huh?”
Frank fell silent as the kid’s soft snores filled the room. His mind flashed back to Matt’s annoying face back in the prison and he whispered in the darkness, voice wobbly:
“He's the best guy, kid.”